


The Courtship Rituals of Asgardians and Super Spies (And Other Acts of Futility)

by summoner_yuna_of_besaid



Series: The Heroes of Midgard [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoner_yuna_of_besaid/pseuds/summoner_yuna_of_besaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working at SHIELD, it’s a thankless job.  You won’t ever be a hero to the people you protect, and success comes at a personal cost.  Nick Fury realized long ago he’d die alone.  His second, Maria Hill, is starting to see just how much the job takes, too.  </p>
<p>That’s when they’re hit with the surprises of their lives: requests of courtship, from two of Asgard’s most renowned warriors.  And, to the surprise of everyone else, they accept.  </p>
<p>Nothing is simple or easy in a relationship between an Asgardian warrior and a SHIELD spy.  But then, nothing worth having ever came easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after my "Metal Heart" story, and alongside my upcoming "Tales of the Heroes of Midgard" story. It's in the same universe, but focuses mainly upon the SHIELD agents and Asgardians who happen to be falling in love with each other. c:

_Nick Fury is in his robe, settling down to relax and read a good book before bed, when his doorbell chimes. What the hell? He cocks an eyebrow, glancing to the front end of his house. Nobody comes here without clearing it with SHIELD first. Nobody even knows where this place is!_

_Frowning, he sets the book aside and draws his gun out of the bedside table, moving towards the stairs with quick, steady precision. Then, he backtracks heading to the back of the house, quietly opening the porch door so he can circle the intruder around from behind –_

_He doesn't get that far. As soon as he opens the door, he's greeted by a stranger in gold armor standing on his back porch. He doesn't seem to have a weapon of any kind, but he's clearly powerful, and he's a big guy to boot. Fury's got his gun on him in half a second, fuming, wondering how the hell this guy got here, who the hell is he –_

_"Who are you and what the hell are you doing at my house?"_

_"I am Heimdall, Gatekeeper of Asgard," The man begins, and he – he fucking kneels. The hell? "And I come before you to request a boon."_

_"A… what now?" Frowning, Fury keeps the gun up, but he is beginning to see this probably isn't a threat. Asgard. Great. Like those immortal assholes haven't been causing him enough trouble lately._

_"A boon." Heimdall, whoever that is, asks again._

_"Uh huh." Snorting, Fury keeps his gun trained between the man's eyes, which are merely inches away from the barrel of his gun. Is this guy asking to get shot? Would a bullet to the head even kill an Asgardian? For a moment, Fury wonders if he's really in deep shit here, and considers pressing the button on the watch on his wrist that will bring SHIELD down on this place in full force._

_"Fear not, I mean no harm. I come not as a vassal of Asgard, or in service to her King, but for my own desires."_

_"Is that supposed to mean shit to me?" This is very confusing. He can honestly say, with all the weird shit that has happened in his life, having a handsome – and yes he is very handsome – immortal warrior pop up on his back porch and kneel in front of him, well, that's a new one._

_"It means that I am only here to speak for myself, and to ask that you grant me an honor which would lift my heart."_

_Fury keeps the gun right where it is. But he maybe, just maybe, might be feeling extremely out of his depth right now. "Okay. Fine. Ask away." This can't get any weirder right?_

_Heimdall smiles, the fucker, and the look is radiantly beautiful on his face. "Would you, Nicholas Fury of Midgard, grant me the honor of allowing me to court you?"_

_Well, damn. He was wrong._

* * *

 

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier.

War was such a small, simple thing on the television screen.  Triumphant music playing, an inspirational voiceover leading the charge as courageous, brave Americans fought for good and freedom and everything American was meant to stand for.  And always, standing at the front, was Captain America.  Every week Nick would watch these men, these heroes; these soldiers win empty battles and easily defeat the enemy, and it was never questioned that what they were doing was right.  What they were doing was good.

So, how could Nick not look at that, at the grand potency of that, and not want it?  How could he not look around his life, his home, his neighborhood, his world, and want something better?  To defend what good was there, and stomp the evil out, just like Captain America?  No, he didn’t want to be a soldier.  He wanted to be a hero.  Enlisting simply seemed like the best, perhaps the only, way to do so.

They sent him to Vietnam.  Quickly, Nick Fury found that the greatest evil there was that which his fellow soldiers and he brought with them.  War was no longer a simple thing in a little black and white box.  It was red, bloody red, it was every color and sound right in your face and on your hands and –

Nick Fury came home to a country in chaos, to a generation in revolt, the ideal of the “American” life or what it supposedly was uprooted and revealed for the poisonous weed it was.  He saw a man in a protest rally burn an effigy of Captain America.  Couldn’t say he blamed him.

His own soul was in turmoil.  This was all a lie.  All of it.  The prosperity, the peace, the goodness.  Nick looked around and the only good and justice was in that little television box, in somebody else’s life, on another world somewhere.  It wasn’t here.  He couldn’t find it.  He couldn’t find peace anywhere.  Couldn’t find peace inside himself.

After the war, he had a chance to leave.  To not re-enlist.  To step out of the government, out of the military, and never look back.  He stood in his room in his grandmother’s house looking at the paperwork with tears in his eyes, his old Cap poster still on the wall beneath a vintage “Uncle Sam” recruitment poster and there was a vicious part of himself that wanted to tear it all down.

But he didn’t.  He re-enlisted, and he worked hard, worked his way through the ranks, as deep and dark as he could.  Espionage became his priority.  It was his talent, keeping his mouth shut, noticing what other people wouldn’t talk about.  He could read other people, know them inside out.  It was what kept him alive all that time.

The further in he went, the more he lost; of himself, his old life, family and friends.  They were tucked away into the old dusty corners of his heart, where he could look back on them from time to time, but he never sought those people out again.  He fought, and he fought, and he played the game, and he kept pushing, and pushing.

He’s done terrible things.  In war, and at home.  He’s lied, cheated, killed, stolen.  And he’d do it all again.  Because this is how the game is played, now.  These are the rules that have been laid down.  He knows how it goes, he can strategize with the best of them.

Now, he’s the Director of the most powerful espionage agency in the world, answerable to a select few.  Now, he stands upon a cold distant precipice, so much power at his fingertips, and he never, _never_ forgets, the feeling of standing on his own street corner feeling lost and homesick and alone.  He never forgets a life of wishing for things that were never real.  And he sure as hell never forgets the war.

Nick Fury never wanted to be a soldier.  He wanted to help people, to be a protector, a guardian, a hero.  But this world doesn’t allow for heroes anymore.  To protect the world from monsters he had to become one himself.  He cut out his heart and soul and sealed them somewhere far away where he’d never remember what it was to be a fifteen year old boy with ideals and dreams.  To ever wish to be someone who could stand in the light and be proud of who he’d become.  Someone who might be able to escape all this one day, to have a family, to grow old with someone.

Those are simply idle fantasies he’ll have to learn to forget.

* * *

 

Nick no longer holds any delusions of a possible love life in his future.

It just isn’t in the job description.  Sure, he has agents who have personal lives, families and lovers, but none of them are the Director of SHIELD.  He will always have a target on his back, even if he stopped at this moment and walked away from it all.  No one will be safe with him, ever, and that’s presuming he’d have the goddamn time to actually have a love life, or care for a family.

The harsh truth is that he doesn’t.  So no, Nick Fury has never considered love or romance in his future.

Needless to say “courting” was never even in the picture.

* * *

 

The very next day, Nick is a billowing trench coat of anger sauntering through the Avenger’s mansion, with a dreadful scowl fixed upon his face.  Tony takes one look at him and makes a beeline for the basement, snatching a donut from the coffee table before scrambling away.  Steve, being the responsibility worry wart that he is, catches up and offers his concern.  But once he’s informed that everything is fine, no, there’s no danger, this a personal matter, he heads for the hills, too.

That is when Nick throws open the door to Thor’s room, and sees him sitting facing Clint, cross legged on the floor, painting each other’s nails. 

“Oh, fuck me,” Clint groans, shoulders drooping. 

“Director!”  Thor of course is oblivious.  He’s also beaming ear to ear and holding up his right hand, which is now painted red to match his cape.  “You are most welcome here!  Clint is teaching me of the traditions of my new home.  Would you care to join us?”

“Thanks but… no thanks.” 

“You sure?  I’ve got black?”  The archer seems to have found his funny bone again, though his smirk is a little on the embarrassed side.

“May I ask why you’re here doing… this?”  As he takes a seat nearby, Fury gestures at the man.  “Was there a bet involved?  Did you get drunk?”

“I really truly want, with every fiber of my being, to avoid Loki, and this is the one place I’m positive he’s never going to pop into.”  The raw truth in that statement dampens the playful mood, as does the pout that appears on Thor’s face.  “Uh, sorry, Thor.”

“No, I understand.”  He nods.  “And tis true.  My brother has been avoiding me of late.” 

Well.  That’s a can of worms Nick Fury has no damn time for.  “Look, I’m sympathetic and all, but I’m not here to chat.  I need to know everything you know about an Asgardian named Heimdall.”

“Heimdall?”  Somehow, Thor manages to grow even more jovial.  “A good friend, and a great ally!  He is the Gatekeeper of Asgard, the most trusted of my father’s warriors.  He is a good man.  Why do you ask this?”

Fury, eyes narrowed, has kept his keen gaze on Thor this whole time – but there’s no lie in his face.  There’s never any lie in his face.  Thor isn’t just practically incapable of lying, he never even thinks to do so.

“Has Asgard been contacting SHIELD?”  Clint, interest piqued, has stalled in his artistry with the nail polish.  “What’s going on?”

“No, it’s –“ Sighing, Nick puts a hand on his face.  What was he thinking?  This is a horrible idea.  “It’s not SHIELD business.  Forget it.”  He stands to go before anything else can go wrong, but he’s stopped by a hand. 

“I know we are not quite friends, Director Fury, but I would help thee if I can.”

Another sigh.  How can anyone turn down such heartfelt kindness?  “Your friend popped up in my backyard yesterday evening.”

“He what?”  Clint, leaping to his feet, is halfway to his bow already, as if he can go back in time and leap to his ex-boss’s aid.  Thor, too, looks concerned, and is perhaps remembering that for all intents and purposes, Earth and Asgard aren’t exactly friends.

“Was anyone else with him?”

Fury shakes his head.  “No, just him.”  Turning around, he continues.  “He told me his name, and about being Gatekeeper of Asgard.  Then he started spewing all this bullshit about a – a boon – and _courtship_ or some shit.”

The room has gone silent.

“Courtship that’s, - what?”  Clint lets out a baffled laugh.  “Like the stuff from a Jane Austen novel right?  People doing all this fancy formal shit before they tie the knot?”

“I do not know of this Jane Austen,” Thor turns to tell him.  “But on Asgard, courtship is a valued tradition.  Not all participate, but many in the royal and noble bloodlines do so.”

“That includes your buddy Heimdall?”

Thor nodded.  “Yes.  What did he say to you exactly?”

The room is a little hot.  That’s it.  Because Nick Fury does not blush.

“He – asked me for the ‘honor’ of allowing him to court me.”

The room is silent again, but that’s only because Clint looks to be hurting himself with the effort of keeping in his laughter.

“Barton,” Fury starts through clenched teeth.  “Say what you’re thinking and I’ll find a way to make you regret it.”

“I’m sure you will but – ohmygodd - !”  That is when, incapable of holding it in any longer, Clint doubled over and let out an incoherent stream of chortling and half-finished sentences.  And Fury turned around and left.

* * *

 

In his office on the Helicarrier that night, Fury remains, embroiled in work long after his typical hours.  It’s not that he’s avoiding going home, of course not.  He’s just getting ahead.  There’s always plenty do to for a super spy after all. 

Except for the fact that, well, there’s really not all that much extra work to do right now.  With the Avengers around, the typical threats SHIELD faces has been cut down almost by half.  Even with the added Mutant “crisis” trouble has still been at an all-time low for the decade.  There’s not much for Fury to do but twiddle his thumbs.

Well, he wanted the Avengers to be heroes, didn’t he?  Damn if he didn’t get his wish.

So, Fury leaves his office in a huff and storms the decks instead, scouring the ranks for something, anything to do.  Leaving vicious critiques and quaking recruits behind wherever he went, Fury stalked the whole ship for two hours.  Until Maria Hill found him.

“Is there a reason you’ve been terrifying half the agents on this ship?”  She asks, arms crossed, barring his way forward.

“Not half,” he retorts.  “They’re all scared out of their wits but some of them are well-trained enough to hide it.”

“The point being,” Maria, ignoring his attempts to side step her, keeps up with his pace, “why are you still here skulking around?”

“My ship, my business.”  He snaps back.  

“It’s SHIELD’s ship, which also makes it my business.” 

But she’s not asking for SHIELD, they both know that.  No, this is as close to “friendship” as these two will ever come.  Veiled attempts at concern, concealed as they must always be.  Anything closer, anything more open, creates risks.

Finally, Fury slows to a halt.  “It’s complicated.”

“Un-complicate it.”

A joke; something he would always say whenever the science types tried talking over his head, giving him “it’s complicated” or “it’s complex mathematics” or otherwise trying to avoid explaining in detail what they – or the people they answered to - didn’t want him to know.  He knows the game.  So does she.

“I may have had an Asgardian warrior pop up out of nowhere in my backyard and ask to – I can’t believe I’m fucking saying this – _court_ me.”

Agent Hill doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink an eye.  No, she just raises an eyebrow.  “You, too?”  In the stunned silence which follows, Maria tells him to buck up and go home, and stop venting his frustration upon the poor newbie agents.

* * *

 

It’s not that Nick doesn’t want this.

Sure he does.  He’ll be the first to admit that the job is lonely, and he’s human after all.  He’s got desires of his own.  What he wouldn’t give for the time and energy to go out and meet somebody for coffee once in a while, or even just a weekend fuck from time to time.  It would sure do wonders for his temperament. 

But who can a super spy trust in the long term?  Who would be safe when all was said and done?  Nick Fury can’t ever let his guard down, he can’t ever stop being the Director of SHIELD.   It’s all too risky.  Too time consuming.  Dangerous for everyone involved.

It would be foolish to get his hopes up.

* * *

 

Nick goes home, frowning and grumbling all the while.  It’s the expression of one ready to quit the universe, to throw up the white flag and be done, but the look belied a very different range of emotions.  Hope, despair, nervousness, excitement, a barrel of contradictions he hadn’t felt the like of since he was a boy.  It was foolish, stupid, to be so hung up on this, on a fairy tale.  A handsome warrior god from a far-away land swooping down from above to “court” the lowly mortal?  Yeah, Nick laughs, right.  He must’ve been dreaming.

What kind of warrior God would look at all of humanity and pick him, anyway?

He’s a weary old man, after all, a battered and scarred ruin long emptied of any human feeling, a mere vessel for action and decision bereft of the joys and wonders of the soul.  He doesn’t have the luxury of all of that.  If for the merest second he took a moment to truly feel, to remember what it was to really be human, he might just break.  Might even cry.

Instead, he reads.  Inserts himself into these tales in which the heroes always win and good always triumphs without ever having to compromise themselves, their light.  Where the dichotomy of good and evil doesn’t allow for a man such as Nick Fury to exist.  And it is in that forgetfulness, in that blissful emptiness in which he does not exist, which lets him relax and simply feel for a while – without feeling all the pains and aches of his life, and the days to come.

Collapsing in his living room, Fury lets his head hang for a moment, allows himself to feel tired.  The aches seep into his bones.  Old wounds tremble.  He’s starved, but much too exhausted to cook anything or even stand and hobble to the phone.  So he slumps back into the chair, reaches to his side table, and picks up the book he was reading the night before. 

For a few minutes, he’s entranced by the words and their movement, by a fantasy far away.

Then there is a knock at the door.

Fury freezes; his eye goes wide, and he glances towards the front.  It couldn’t be.  He stands and sets the book aside, grabs his gun.  But before he starts moving he hesitates.  This is all feeling very familiar.  Is he just going to repeat his actions?  No, Fury decides, frowning, he’s going to take a more direct approach.  He’s going to face this guy and tell him to fuck off and end this foolishness once and for all!

So, gun in tow, Fury storms to the front door, throws it open, and –

He’s not there.

Suddenly, Fury finds himself grimacing and gesturing angrily at empty space, a gun drawn on thin air, and finds himself frustrated further with the empty display.  Now, he’s all worked up with no one to vent it on. 

Fuming, Fury slams the door and turns around – and there’s a three course meal sitting on his kitchen counter, fresh and steaming hot.

He’s got his gun up in no time, scanning the room for anyone at all, but there’s nothing.  Just a magically appearing dinner plate and a card next to it.  Fury ignores both of these, pointedly, for forty five minutes, as he canvases his yard and all three levels of his house something near to ten times.  Then, and only then, does he return to the kitchen.  And promptly sweep the food and the card into the trashcan.

* * *

 

The next morning, he finds a pile of pancakes and a heap of bacon with a glass of orange juice, on a tray on his bathroom counter.  He tosses the whole thing out his window, and the satisfying sound of shattering glass cools his irritation for a while.

But it keeps happening.  Every day around mealtimes something shows up out of nowhere.  It’s never just a small meal, either, but rather a feast he could never hope to finish even on a good day.  A whole roast turkey with potatoes and green beans one night, an entire pizza and a 12 liter of soda another.  It continues, day after day, for two weeks.

Then Fury goes back to the Avengers Mansion.

“You,” He starts through gritted teeth, pointing at Thor, “have got to make it stop!”

“Make what stop?”  Tony, from his place slumped across the living room couch, perks up.  “What’s stopping?  I swear I’m not at fault this time.”

“He’s yelling at Thor, not you,” Natasha tells him with a dry smirk.  She’s on the other end of the couch, Tony’s feet in her lap, switching channels with the TV remote.  Once she settles on Scyfy channel, which is planning a back-to-back marathon of the Resident Evil movies, she sets the remote down and starts messaging Tony’s feet. 

“Oh, good,” Tony replies, letting out an obscene groan.

“Make any more uncomfortable noises and this stops.”

“I can’t help that you have magical hands.”

“My hands aren’t magic.”  She smiles at the comment, though.  “You just overwork yourself too much.  Take it easy.”

“Says the super spy who never sleeps.”

“I sleep.  Eventually.”

While the two of them are having their inane conversation, Fury has continued yelling at Thor for the same amount of time.  Thor, who appears for all intents and purposes completely unbothered, just very confused and somewhat concerned.

“How do I make this guy back off?”  Fury finally finishes, lifting a hand to his forehead.  “Where’s the cancel button on this courtship thing?”

“I do not believe this is courtship,” Thor starts, ignoring Tony’s surprised squawk of “courtship!?” followed by Natasha cursing in Russian and insisting he stop squirming.  “While food does have a place in our rituals, the… persistence and repetitive nature implies, to me, that this is an attempt at apology.”

“Wait, he’s sorry?”  Fury gives a huff, almost laughing.  “What happened to the ‘honor’ of courting me?  He lost interest so soon?”  It figures, he lets himself think, ignoring the sharp stab of pain behind his rib cage.

“Can we rewind to the part about Fury being courted?”  Tony, who is all but ignoring Natasha, tries to turn and face the two of them, but the spy’s death-grip on his ankles makes it so he’s become something of a pretzel shape.

“You misunderstand.”  Thor continues.  “He is not apologizing for his desire.  Heimdall must be under the impression that he has wronged you, and is attempting to redeem himself.  In Asgard, preparing a fine meal for another is the greatest form of sincere apology.  It takes time and dedication, and personal knowledge of the person’s tastes.”

“I’m not here for a cultural lesson, Thor,” Fury sighs.  “Just tell me how to make it stop.”

“You must eat one of his meals, of course.”  The Asgardian replies with a tone that makes it sound oh so obvious.  “Such an action implies trust, and forgiveness, as you have accepted the gift and acknowledged your faith in the other person, for you have eaten of a meal you have not prepared.”

“Seriously!  I’m right here!”  Tony, now attempting to crawl off the sofa and join the conversation, has been waylaid by a determined teammate.

“You asked me to help with your muscle pain, I am going to help with your muscle pain!”  Natasha insists.

“Forget I asked!  Let go!”

“Stop prying into other people’s business and be still already!” 

“So, that’s it.  Eat a meal, the apologies stop.”  Sighing, Fury lets out a laugh.  “Sounds easy enough.”

“That should end the courtship as well, I imagine.”  Thor continues.  “If you have accepted his courtship.  Or did you turn him down?”

Fury freezes.  “Is that important?”

“A courtship offered must be accepted or declined, in no unclear terms.  Such ambiguity has lead to many tragedies in Asgard’s past.”  Thor, now frowning himself, raises an eyebrow.  “You… did respond to his request?”

Nick Fury does not fidget.  He just frowns a little, and ignores the rising feeling of immaturity inside him.  Right now, he feels very much like a young man in front of his elder, not a government agent talking to a co-worker.  Granted, Thor is much older than him… technically.

“Well, Nicky?”  Tony grunts from the couch, fighting a chokehold.  He’s got a hand tied up in Natasha’s hair, and despite their rough tones of voices, both are grinning ear to ear.  “Did you break your poor suitor’s heart?  Put him out of his misery?”

“I… did not respond.  Verbally.”  He starts.  That doesn’t seem to be enough for any of them, as they’re all still staring, even Natasha, waiting for more.  “… I shot at him.”

“You shot him!?”

“At him!”  Fury insists, throwing out his hands.  “What was I supposed to do?  A fucking alien teleports into my goddamn backyard and – and starts requesting boons and all this medieval shit – yeah, I shot at him!”

“And then what?”  Thor asks.

“Then – nothing.”  Fury throws up his arms.  “He backed off and disappeared in this gold glow, the Bifrost I imagine.  I haven’t heard or seen him since.”

“Then, I imagine he believes his suit to be denied.”  Thor replies.  “All you must do, is partake of a single meal he offers you.  This will right any wrongs between you, and restore his honor.  Then you shall hear no more of him.”

* * *

 

Fury returns home that night, keeping Thor’s words in mind.  At dinner, yet another finely made meal appears on his kitchen counter, out of nowhere.  All he has to do is eat it and this will all be over.  It’s as simple as that, he tells himself, standing in his enormous, empty house, three stories and twenty rooms and so many acres of land for one man and all the belongings of a long, lonely lifetime.  He stands in the kitchen and stares at the countertop.  Imagines what Heimdall might have looked like, making it.  What it might have been like, to see him make it, here, in this kitchen, in this home.  Together. 

He goes to bed.  Leaves the dinner plate untouched, and doesn’t eat a thing.

* * *

 

In the morning, he doesn’t find any meal prepared for him.  There’s no note, no plate, no sign of anything.  For a terrible, heart-wrenching moment, Nick wonders if Thor had been wrong, and perhaps he had simply ignored Heimdall so long the man had given up on apologies.  Then, he asks himself why those thoughts bother him so, why he’s suddenly feeling tight-chested and out of breath.

He goes to work, shoving all his thoughts aside, cursing himself for allowing such a foolish distraction for so long. 

* * *

 

After work, on his way home, he receives a text message.

FRIEND FURY.  The message comes a number he doesn’t recognize, but a quick check reveals the phone is in the Avengers Mansion.  TIS I THOR.  HOW ARE YOU THIS DAY.

Fury doesn’t send text messages.  He has nobody to send them to.  His contact list contains emergency numbers, co-worker phones, things he needs for SHIELD business.  In fact he’s not sure he’s ever sent a text in his life.

Fury stares at the screen for a minute, before delicately typing:  Fine.  What do you want.

He keeps on heading home, walking out of the SHIELD building towards his vehicle, ready to be gone, away from all this.  His phone beeps again:  I HAVE SPOKEN TO YOUR WOULD-BE SUITOR.  SHOULD YOU WISH, HE WOULD DESIRE TO MEET WITH YOU AND DISCUSS YOUR SITUATION PROPERLY.

Suddenly, a flash of heat lights up his skin, tingles and burns pleasantly.  A foolish, childish reaction.  This isn’t something he should encourage.  He shoves his phone back into his pocket, ignoring the message.  Five minutes later, he sighs and pulls it back out.

He sends the message: All right, tell him where I’ll be.  Then, he names a local restaurant he’s always liked, and stuffs the phone back in his pocket. 

This way, he can tell Heimdall to his face to leave him alone.  It’s the proper way to do it after all.  End things formally, face to face.  That’s the only reason he’s agreed to this.  Definitely.

* * *

 

It’s called The Hibernian, and it’s an Irish Pub.  Not exactly Fury’s favorite place to eat.  The Irish are known for their drinks, not their food, after all, and he’s never been much of a drinker.  But if he’s about to turn this guy down, he at least wants him to be comfortable.  Asgardians love bars, right?  It’s not exactly Norse, but it will have to do.

The building is a tall, dark mahogany monstrosity on the side of the road, an antiquated sight next to more modern shops and cafes.  Inside, the light is dim and the rooms loud, filled with the echo of sports games coming out of TV screens and the cacophony of the tavern scene on a weeknight.  It’s subdued, but lively.  All the furniture is old and wooden, and every wall is lined with bookshelves.  The atmosphere, being in a warm, homey place surrounded by books and good conversation; that is what really draws Fury here. 

He sits in a back corner, orders a coke, and waits.  Twenty two minutes later, he sees the man he’s waiting for enter the room.

Clearly Heimdall made a detour somewhere, because he’s not wearing his Asgardian armor anymore.  No, he’s in jeans, jeans that appear to be a few sizes too small or simply designed to be a tight fit.  They fall low on his hips, the edges of the bottom rolled up over designer dress shoes that Fury knows had to have come from Tony Stark’s closet.  His shirt, meanwhile, is a fine pristine white button up, the first and last buttons purposefully left undone.  This man would look for all the world like just another patron at the bar, if not for the shimmering gold eyes which meet Fury’s dead on from across the room.

Take it in, old man.  Fury tells himself firmly as Heimdall approaches.  Enjoy it while it lasts, because this is going to end.

“Good evening, Director.”  The voice of a God if ever there was one; a powerful, resonating tone touched by silk.  Heimdall takes a seat across from Fury, his posture firm and resolute, shoulders back, knees apart, his hands on his thighs.  “It is a pleasure to see you again, one I dared not think I would have.”

“Yeah, well,” Fury clears his throat, feeling suddenly somewhat awkward.  “I don’t take kindly to be taken by surprise.”

“Yes, that much I have learned.”  Heimdall laughs, goddamn the man, it’s a beautiful sound. 

They’re quiet for a moment, just looking at one another.  Heimdall’s much more handsome up close.  He has such warm eyes, and a soft, inviting smile.  Fury almost can’t imagine such a kind and welcoming face barring the door of a nation.  Yet, he can.  He has seen the power in this man’s stance, the fire in his eyes.  Yes, he can imagine Heimdall as a warrior.  Suddenly he wants to see it himself.

It takes him a moment to realize he’s just been staring all this time, and that Heimdall’s smile has become a smirk.  Then the waitress appears from nowhere, and neither of them have the time to comment.

* * *

 

When she’s gone, Fury finds his voice.

“So, does this count as accepting your apology?”  He starts. 

“It shall, if you have forgiven me.” Heimdall inclines his head.  “You are not Asgardian, though I find I see in you all the traits our people consider most honorable.  But I fear in forgetting our differences, I have further offended you.  I apologize.”

“No, it’s – fine.”  He finds himself saying, hardly knowing it’s himself.  He sounds so unsure.  Since when does Nick Fury speak with anything but utter surety, without the meanest scrap of self-doubt?  “I get what you were trying to do.  Thank you.  And I do accept it.”

Heimdall beams at that, and Fury certainly does not feel his heart skip a beat.  That was just a palpitation.  And an elevated heart beat for no apparent reason.  He obviously needs to see a cardiologist about this.

“And what of my request?”  Heimdall begins again.  This time, he’s the one who seems almost tentative, nervous.  “Have you considered it?”

Now, Fury can’t help but laugh.  “You – you’re still interested?”  Heimdall gives a firm nod, and he looks like Thor, when he’s being so heartfelt and sincere that seems so silly but it’s ridiculously endearing.  Apparently it’s a shared Asgardian thing.  “After I shot at you?  And ignored you for two weeks?  And threw all your gifts in the trash?”

“You doubted my sincerity, and I do not fault you for it.”  Heimdall just smiles.  “If such displays were enough to deter me, I would not be worthy of courting you at all.”

How is this man even real?  Fury finds himself wondering, dumbstruck and wide eyed.  How can he really be sitting here, a goddamn Disney Prince if there ever was one, saying this shit to Nick Fury of all the people in the world?

“But,” Heimdall begins again, gaze drifting to the table top.  “I would respect your wishes.  If you do not desire this, say so, and I shall leave you be.”

“You make it sound so simple.”  The Director scoffs.  “As if this isn’t the most ridiculous shit.  You’re an Asgardian!  A human life is a blink to you, and I’m hardly a spring chicken.”

“No, you are not a chicken at all.”  The utter befuddlement on the man’s face stops Fury in his tracks. 

“It’s – it’s a phrase.  I mean, I’m not young anymore.” 

“Ah,” Now, he appears somewhat embarrassed, smiling nervously.  “I see.”  It’s… endearing.  This age-old warrior, acting like a fumbling teenager.  Wearing human clothes that are much too small, hunching over a table in a ridiculous tavern.  And he’s doing it all for him.  To court him!  This handsome, powerful, immortal man wants to court him.

It’s impossible to believe.  It’s a dream, and it’s happening right before his eyes. 

“Director Fury?”  Heimdall seems concerned now, golden eyes narrowed upon him.

Fury was speaking a moment ago, wasn’t he?  Yeah, he was.  Only he’s lost his train of thought now.  So, he thinks of something to say.  And it comes naturally.

“It’s Nick.”  He says.  “Short for Nicholas.”

Heimdall’s smile brightens, and with the spark in his eyes, he almost seems to glow.  “Very well, Nick-Short-For-Nicholas.”

“No, that’s not –“

“I ask again,” He continues.  “Would you allow me the honor of courting you?”

* * *

 

When Nick Fury was a kid, he wanted to be a hero.

Good, evil, it’s not so clear-cut in reality as in the movies.  In his many years, he’s had to allow travesties, to prevent catastrophes.  Murdered to save lives.  Stolen to protect what’s valuable.  He wouldn’t call himself a good man, and he knows damn well history won’t, but he’s at peace with his life most nights.

But there are times, in those lulls between here and there, coming and going, the moments when there’s nothing to do but let your mind wander and wait, that he considers the impossible.  Retirement.  A family.  Friends.  Somebody to come home to, anybody at all.

He tries not to think about those things too often.  It hurts, more than he’d like to admit, thinking of what he can’t have.

Because of his job, his loved ones would always be in danger.

_But how much danger can human threats ever pose to an Asgardian?_

Because of his position, he’ll always be keeping secrets, putting the job first.

_The Gatekeeper of Asgard probably knows a thing or two about secret-keeping and putting his duties before his desires._

Because of his life, he’ll never have the time.

_And yet, here they are._

* * *

 

Under the dim lights of the tavern, Nick meets Heimdall’s glowing gaze, and he remembers all those unrealized fantasies.  Possible futures that could never possibly be.  In the flash of an instant, a thousand reasons to say no flew through his mind and yet every time, those little whimsies pushed them aside.  Waking up next to someone in bed.  Making breakfast in the kitchen with someone else.  Quick coffee breaks between meetings.  Having someone to tell “I’m alive” at the end of a crisis, someone to actually fucking care.

He meets Heimdall’s eyes, and he says yes.

TBC


	2. Movement One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick begins to worry about this courtship, and what it might entail. Where is Heimdall and when is he going to give some answers?

_Under the dim lights of the tavern, Nick meets Heimdall’s glowing gaze, and he remembers all those unrealized fantasies.  Possible futures that could never possibly be.  In the flash of an instant, a thousand reasons to say no flew through his mind and yet every time, those little whimsies pushed them aside.  Waking up next to someone in bed.  Making breakfast in the kitchen with someone else.  Quick coffee breaks between meetings.  Having someone to tell “I’m alive” at the end of a crisis, someone to actually fucking care._

_He meets Heimdall’s eyes, and he says yes._

///

 

Working for SHIELD, Nick Fury tends to go days, even weeks, without a moment’s pause to simply breathe and think for a while.

 

Usually, he appreciates that.  His life hasn’t always been one he’d like to reflect upon, and reflection usually brought with it more pain and irritation than he cared for.  It was… rather empty, his life.  And who wanted to return home at the end of the day to think about the vacancy of their life?  So, yes, typically, Nick liked how busy his work kept him, how tired and drained he was.

 

Typically.

 

But today, and for the last few days, Nick has found himself wanting a moment to just sit and think about everything that’s happened, about – about these huge changes he’s found himself contemplating.

 

He’s… being courted.

 

Well, to start with, Nick has no idea what courtship of any kind, let alone Asgardian courtship, really entails.  That night at the bar, he’d said as much to his… courter?  His – whatever.  Heimdall.  The man had just smiled and told him, he’d see, which did nothing to rest the worries in Nick Fury’s mind.

  
Fury does not like being unprepared.  In the field he works in, unprepared means dead.  So, yes, having no idea what to expect, and when has him… on alert.  He’s – nervous.  Fidgety.  Anxious, even.  And Nick Fury does not like being nervous, fidgety, and anxious.

  
That night, Heimdall had beamed at him, with those handsome bright eyes, and beautiful smile, expressed his joy at being given “this marvelous chance”, and soon after returned home.  A week had passed since then, and not a peep had been heard from the man.  Nick has no idea what to think.  A whole week of silence.

 

Okay, the man has a job, a life.  Surely he has things to do.  He can’t just pop down and see Nick any old time.  Still, the silence, on top of his own worries, is driving him mad.  He’s – unsure.  Of what to do, what to expect.  Why did he agree to this anyway?

 

By the Friday after their first… date, maybe?  Nick has had enough.  After many hours sitting in his office with nothing to do but review old paperwork, he texts Maria, tells her he’s heading out for the night, and leaves for the local library.

 

It’s something of a stretch, to be sure.  But it is all he can think to do, so Fury heads to the library, and finds every book he can about the Vikings, the Nords, whoever and whatever might be related to Asgard and Heimdall and those cultures that are sort’ve, kind’ve related to them.

 

In the dim light of long, empty halls, lined with towering shelves and small, square tables, Nick sits to read.  He enjoys reading.  It is one of the few pass-times he can enjoy between work that distracts him.  Keeps him occupied, when his thoughts are dark and his mind antsy.  Books can send him to a world faraway where his duties, his failures, his sins, can be forgotten, for a short time. 

 

These books, however, are rather dry, being histories of a civilization long gone.  Vikings, he finds, are both like and unlike the Asgardian’s he’s met.  He can certainly see the similarities.  But after a few hours reading, he’s not sure he’s going to find anything helpful. 

 

What he is learning, is – strange.  And somewhat upsetting.  For instance, he’s found that the Vikings had three social classes, supposedly divinely ordained and all descended from Heimdall himself, who spent time on earth sleeping around and fathering the ancestors of the slaves, the common folk, and the upper classes.  That was something he could do without knowing for sure.

 

Sighing, Fury shuts the book and finds he must simply accept that he has no fucking clue what is going to happen, and it is unnerving.

 

///

 

And that is how he finds himself at the Avengers mansion… again.

 

“I am not sure I can be of much help to you,” Thor begins.  Fury can hardly hear him because he’s facing the TV, and the music is too loud.

 

“What was that?”

 

“Hey, give us a second here, - oh come on!”  Clint, on the right of Thor, gives a groan.  “Seriously?  Okay, this is just embarrassing.  I’m supposed to be lighter on my feet than you are.”  The screen is giving him some kind of failure rating, that much Fury can tell, but the noise – god, it’s obnoxious.

 

“All warriors must be well trained in foot work!”  Thor declares with a laugh, stepping off the DDR pad. 

 

“Are you children done?”  Fury crosses his arms.  “I swear, I thought this was the Avengers base, not a frat pad.”

 

“It’s a little of both to be honest.”  Clint says as he crashes back into the couch cushions, picking up the TV remote.  “Besides, Thor wants to learn about his new home, and who am I to deny him?”

 

“I didn’t realize obnoxious video games were so important.”

 

“Obnoxious video games are all that’s important.”

 

Thor, glancing between both of them, laughs, before waving Fury towards the dining table in the center of the large room.  “Sit, friend, let us talk,” He has a bottle of water in his hand, and is wearing a tank top and baggy sweatpants.   It’s a strangely domestic scene, and once again Fury wonders how he ended up in this situation.

 

“So, what can you tell me?”

 

“Not much.”  Thor admits with a shrug.  “Though I would like to.  Our customs vary; I am of the royal house, the noble class, and our courtship customs are quite unlike those of the warrior class.”

 

“Heimdall, he’s a warrior, then?”  Not a noble.  Or could one be both?  Frowning, Fury clenches his hands, and tries to settle the tightness in his chest.  It’s a little hard to breath. 

 

“Yes, though when he was chosen as guardian of the realm, he was raised to noble class.”  Thor explains.  “But I doubt he would forgo his own practices.”

 

“And you don’t know anything about those?”  Sighing quietly, Nick feels the tension radiating down his spine.  Back to square one.  This is just great.

 

“Fret not, friend Fury,” Thor laughs suddenly, patting the man’s shoulder so hard Fury’s chair scoots sideways, and the room spins a little.  “We Asgardians are not so intimidating, are we?”

 

“No,” Fury chokes. “Course not.”

 

“Our practices are simple, meant only to ensure that the people involved may share a long and happy life together.  There is nothing to be frightened of.”

 

“I am not frightened!”  Fury insists, feeling heat rise to his face.

 

Clint, from the couch, leans backward to look over Thor’s shoulder.  “You look a little frightened.”

 

Nick stands and storms from the room, heart pounding, refusing to admit to himself that they’re both right.

 

///

 

Nick never dated much as a kid.  Sure, he had a date or two, took a girl to the movies once.  When he was older, and he had the chance, he had some dalliances with men too, in quiet hideaways and illicit locations.  But there was nothing in his past that really gave him any context for this.  Even if Heimdall was not an alien from the Rainbow Realm, or whatever, Nick would still be very much out of his depth.

 

Nick Fury does not like being out of his depth.

 

He prepares for every possibility, every outcome, and makes four or five back up plans for each situation.  He is always prepared.  To – to be so ill prepared, so ignorant, for something so important…

 

What if he screws it up?

 

Nick would like to say that this is all nothing important, a distraction, but he can’t lie to himself for long. This feels… very important.  Like an opportunity he almost missed, come back for a second chance.  And he knows this is his last chance.  If this thing with Heimdall doesn’t work out… he’ll be spending his life alone.

 

It’s a lot to risk, and he knows so little.

 

He tries to calm himself by focusing on his job, by going through the routine, telling himself his own happiness and his personal life don’t matter.  Look at the big picture.  Deal with reality.  He tells himself those things every night at bed, swallows them down like bitter pills, and sleeps a restless, dream-filled sleep.

 

And nine days after their first “date”, Heimdall comes back.

 

///

 

“What do you know?”

 

Maria Hill stands to Fury’s left; on his right, a younger agent stands guard at the door.  It is only the three of them, in this room.  It would be fewer, if Nick thought they could spare the guard.  This is risky enough as is.

 

“Three months ago,” Hill starts, stepping around the holographic map in front of them.  “Our target, who we’ve been tracking since the incident twenty five years ago, vanished off the face of the planet.”  She sighs, crossing her arms.  “No bio readings, no trace whatsoever.  Our guards and surveillance saw him simply disappear from one of the laboratories under his building.”

 

“Great,” Nick sighs, leaning forward to put his hands on the table.  “When did our Houdini reappear?”

 

“A few months ago.  He was gone for a few days, a week tops.”  Hill continues.  She waves her hand over the map, and it transforms into a holographic tower.  “He’s been holed up in his building ever since.  Our security measures suddenly vanished; he caught on to everything, the bugs, our plants, everything.  It was too sudden and wide spread for it to be coincidence.”

 

“He knew we were watching,” Nick starts.  “And didn’t care if we knew he knew.”  Which meant he has something up his sleeve, some trump card, that gives him the guts to stand up to SHIELD.  Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

“Exactly,” Maria nods.  “But something’s changed.  A week ago, he scheduled an appointment with the CEO of Stark Industries.”  Their gazes meet at that.  “He plans on meeting her personally in a few days.”

 

“What are the chances he’ll actually go himself?”

 

“Not sure.”  She says.  “But we can’t miss this opportunity.  If he’s up to old tricks, we need to know.”

 

She’s right.  And more than that, Nick knows what he has to do.  “We watch for his appearance.  If – when – he leaves that building, you let me know immediately.  I want people following his every footstep, if he so much as blinks, I want to know.”

 

“And what about the building, sir?”

 

Standing up straight, Fury nods.  “I’ll search that myself.”

 

“Sir?”

 

He merely glances her way.  “You have your orders.”  After a moment, she nods, and stalks off.  Fury turns back to the table, to the holographic tower that reads “OsCorp”, and frowns.

 

What is he doing, after all this time?

 

Sighing, Fury leaves the room, returning to his other work, and thoughts of Oscorp fall to the back of his mind.

 

///

 

 Night has long since fallen by the time Nick Fury returns home.

 

It has been a very long day; and when he pulls into his driveway, Fury sinks into the seat and lets out a heavy sigh.  The worries and cares so carefully hidden through the day become clear upon his face, haggard and weary.  Times like these, Fury finds he sympathizes greatly with that old Greek legend, the one about Atlas.

 

Stepping out of the car, Fury gets his briefcase, locks the trunk, turns – and sees Heimdall standing on his doorstep.

 

He’s not in his Asgardian clothes, like he was when they first met.  No, he’s in human attire once again.  Only this time, it is clearly obvious that he raided Tony Stark’s closet.  His jeans and shirt are much too tight, for one, and for another, both are covered in oil stains and burns.  The shirt reads “ACDC”, and outlines his well-defined torso.

 

Perhaps catching him staring, Heimdall appears… self-concious for a moment.  “I – apologize.”  He starts.  “I have yet to make a Midgardian wardrobe of my own, and my arrival here tonight went somewhat less… planned than I had hoped.”  He steps down from the front porch, towards Fury.  “I was running out of time, and Stark offered his assistance.”

 

Fury takes it in once more, before forcing his eyes to rise to Heimdall’s face.  “Running out?  Is there a time limit to these things?”

 

“Perhaps we could talk inside?”  Heimdall replies, stepping to Fury’s side.  “If I may come in?”

 

If he may – as if Fury’s gonna keep him out in the cold.  He snorts, but says nothing, moving to the door, and Heimdall seems to take that as acceptance, if his figure following behind means anything.

  
They step through the front hall into the living room.  Fury sets his briefcase on the coffee table, and quickly falls into the nearest armchair.  His aches and pains are being sharply felt, and even sitting is an agony in itself. 

 

“Are you all right?”

 

He opens his eyes – Heimdall is sitting across from him, elbows resting upon his knees, dark eyes glimmering under the dim light.  Nick lifts a hand to his face, rubs at his temple.  This is all so much like a dream.  Half the time, he expects to wake up, for Heimdall to be a figment of his foolish imagination.  

 

“Long day.”  He finally says, dropping his hands.  “You have those in Asgard?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Heimdall chuckles, his voice deep and sardonic, and it sends a thrill through Fury’s chest, tightens his throat.  Damn it all – when did he become a hormonal teenager again?  “If I understand your meaning.”

 

“By your tone, I think you do.”

 

They fall silent.  It’s not awkward or tense, but Fury finds he needs to fill the air with something.  He’s had so many unanswered questions these last few days, and here is his chance to have him answered.  But now that the man sits before him, he finds himself speechless.  He has no idea what to say.  Is there a polite way to ask, “What the fuck do we do now?”

 

“I imagine you must have many questions.”  Heimdall says finally.  “I cannot say I will answer all of them, but I shall try.”

 

“And why not?”

 

He smiles.  “Knowing what I know of you, I am sure you wish to know everything and anything about our courtship and how it will occur.  You would take all the mystery out of it, and where is the fun in that?”

 

The mystery?  He’s been stewing in his juices, worried out of his mind this whole week, and here this man is talking about – fuming, Fury opens his mouth to shoot back with something sharp; only he catches himself.  There’s a gleam in Heimdall’s eye, bright and whimsical.  “You’re – teasing me.”

 

“Yes, I am.”  Heimdall laughs again, a sound like bells.  “Is that so strange?”

 

Well… yes.  Sighing, Fury stands, needing to move suddenly, trying to ignore the heat rising to his face.  “I’m not fond of bullshit.”  He says, striding into the kitchen.  He very much needs a drink right now. 

 

“Then, I promise that none of my courtship gifts shall be comprised of feces of any kind.”

 

When he turns, Heimdall is stand just behind him, his smile transformed into something sly, hands tucked behind his back.  He – he is teasing.  This is banter.  And while Nick might joke with Hill from time to time, and might shoot back at Stark or some of the other Avengers when they get mouthy, there’s always a line drawn.  He’s the director.  Very few people will dare push his buttons.

 

Startled, Fury hesitates, stuck motionless before his suitor.  His gaze meets Heimdall’s, and he stares into those gleaming golden orbs and realizes, he has no idea what to do.  He’s – dumbstruck.  It has been so long, years beyond counting, that he’s had anything like this, that he has no idea what to do.  It’s not just the possibility of romance, it’s the very personal nature of it.  Friends, family, lovers – he has none.  Has had none for decades. 

 

Nick isn’t sure he knows how to do this, how to… behave like a human being, with thoughts and feelings, again.

 

“Sir Fury?”

 

Startled again, Nick frowns at the name.  It is enough to awaken him.  “Didn’t I already tell you my name?”  He turns to the fridge, pulling out a beer.

 

“Ah, yes.  Nick-short-for-Nicholas.”

 

“Nick.  Just Nick.”  He insists, standing and closing the door.  He gestures with the beer.  “Want one?”

 

Heimdall shakes his head.  “I am fine.”

 

Yes, yes you are, Nick finds himself thinking, a very juvenile response which once again has him cursing his foolishness.  This is so ridiculous.  Yet, it makes him feel so – so warm. 

  
They return to the living room, sit once again at the same places, and Fury gives a deep sigh after his first sip.  He doesn’t do this often.  His job means he must be aware and alert at any moment, awaiting the first sign of trouble.  But, tonight, he will allow himself this.  He thinks he’ll need it to get through this conversation.

 

“So, are you going to tell me anything,” Fury begins, leaning forward.  “Or am I going to have to go into this with both eyes closed?”

 

“Forgive me, I was only jesting.”  He says, holding up a hand.  The way he speaks, it’s ridiculous and flowery, but it is lovely.  Fury remembers a few tomes of poetry on his shelves, and is hit suddenly with the thought of hearing that voice recite some of his favorite lines.  Ooh my.  A possibility for another day, perhaps.  “I would not have you enter into this agreement unprepared.”

 

“Good.”  Fury says, taking another sip.  “Because I wouldn’t let you.”

 

“No, you would not, at that.”  Heimdall smirks, as if he’s – amused, by Fury’s temerity, and typically such a sentiment would make him angry.  But he doesn’t seem to be condescending, or as if he’s looking down on him, no; he speaks of Fury with the utmost respect.  For the thousandth time since this began, Fury finds himself wondering how in the world this man found him, and decided he was the one of all humanity that he wanted.

 

“Well, then.”  Fury motions to the man.  “What the fuck is this Asgardian Courtship shit about anyway?”

 

“It is not – Asgardian, per se.”  Heimdall begins.  He leans forward, and the movement pulls that short, tight shirt up further.  It is much too small, and the thin line of skin revealed between his top and his jeans is a testament to that.  “Within Asgard, various classes and families have their own traditions.  As I was born a warrior, I adhere to the traditions of the warrior class.”

 

“Thor told me as much, when I asked him,” Nick replies.  “So, how do warriors go about this?”  He takes another sip, then sets the beer down.  It’s sweltering in here.  Standing, he starts to remove his long trench coat.  “From what I understand of courting, it can have a whole heap of rules and regulations to keep to.”

 

“Yes, it can, and we do have some.”  Heimdall replies.  Fury tosses his trench coat onto a nearby chair, and then looks to his suitor.  The man’s eyes – they’ve fallen low, half lidded, looking upon the skin revealed by the removal of his coat.  There is such heat, such want in those eyes, it has his pulse stuttering.  God, this is ridiculous.  All they’ve done is look at each other and he feels like he’s going to implode.

 

“Then what are they?”  He asks tersely, driven to irritation by this unrealized passion thrumming in his skin.  It’s made all the more furious now that he sees it is really, truly reciprocated, and as much as he thinks this man must be off his rocker to see anything in him, he’s not going to look a gift Asgardian in the mouth.  “I’d like to be sure I’m not fucking things up before we even begin.”

 

“They are simple enough.”  Heimdall says after a pause, thick and heavy.  Licks his lips between his words and that is just not fair.  “Our courtship has nine movements, nine goals to complete, one for each of the nine realms which the warriors of the Aesir are sworn to protect.  Between each, a warrior must wait the allotted time before seeing or speaking to their betrothed again.”

 

Betrothed.  Damn, that is a word with weight.  Fury’s voice almost catches in his throat.  “And – what’s that time?”

 

“It varies, beginning with nine days, for the ninth step, and with each step completed, the days drop by a single count.”

 

“Then, eight for eight, seven for seven, so on?”  Surprised, Fury lifts an eyebrow.  “I thought courtship was supposed to last for months, years even.  But with a schedule like that –“

 

“Our courtship lasts only 45 days.”  Heimdall confirms, nodding.  “We are warriors.  Our lives can be short, bittersweet, cut down at any time for our people, our duty.  We do not tarry in our rites, because we may not live to see them completed.”

 

Well.  By that logic, 45 days almost seems too long.  Still… “That’s a month and a half.”  A month and a half, to decide if he cares about this man enough to stay with him for the rest of his days.  A month and a half to see if he could love this man.  It’s – it’s fast, for certain… especially since he would only be seeing Heimdall on nine of those days.

 

Nine days.

 

“I realize it must be strange for you.”  Heimdall lowers his gaze, his fingers interwoven together in the air above his legs, arms resting on his thighs.  “While I value the ways of my people, I know you are not an Aesir.  And I am more than willing to alter what I can for you.  You need not give me an answer by the end of these rites – I would not have you rush to make a decision upon which so much stands.”

 

“It’s – alright.”  Fury finds himself saying.  “We’ll do this your way, and see what happens.”  It surprises him, how uncaring he is about this.  It should worry him beyond reason.  Only nine days to decide?  Only nine encounters, to know this man well enough to – to - ?   “Any other rules I should know about?”

 

“We must be – discrete, in our affections.  As I imagine you have guessed.”  Heimdall smirks at that, a little depreciatively.  “We are allowed to be close, to embrace, perhaps to kiss, but no more than that.”

 

“I saw that one coming.”  It’s like the people who design these things want people to suffer.  Fuck.  Suddenly, Heimdall laughs, a bright swelling thing that rises like air.  “What?”

 

“It is just – you look so upset!”  He grins, lifting a hand to cover his mouth.  “Petulant even.”

 

“I’m not – “ More laughter interrupts him; it’s… sweet, tender, not at all aimed to hurt him.  And listening to it, Fury finds himself… endeared.  Whatever anger had begun to build inside him dissipates like a pile of leaves caught on the wind.  “Okay, maybe a little.  Can you blame me?”

 

“No, I cannot.  It is a mighty test of my will to adhere to such rules as well.”  His voice thickens with those words, eyes darkening, and no one on Earth could go unaffected by that.

 

Swallowing, Nick takes a moment to find his words.  “Right.  Well, I guess we’ll suffer together?”

 

Heimdall smirks, heavy with promise and intent.  “We shall, until we have to no longer.”

 

“Keep talking like that,” Fury starts, mouth dry.  “And my resolve won’t last the night.”  God, he is such a smitten little boy, when did the great Nick Fury become this mess of feeling and want?  “Anything else I should know?”

 

“I should tell you how each movement in the courtship shall be.”  Heimdall tells him.  “Every time we meet, there shall be a – challenge, of sorts.  I, as the suitor, shall have to perform a task to prove my worth and devotion to you.  At the end of each task, you have the chance to deny me, and spurn further courting, or to accept my display, and continue the courtship.”

 

“At the end of the courting period, we must stand before my King, the Lord General of the warrior class, and a member of my family, and I must ask you to formally accept my courtship.  If you should accept, then we shall marry in the traditions of my people.  In – this case, I could perhaps ask my king for some time –“

 

“We’ll worry about that if it’s a problem.”  Fury waves him off.  “For now, we’re at the first one right?”

 

“Movement One, yes.”

 

“And what’s that?”

 

“As a warrior, it is my duty to protect all the realms, and those I love.”  That word almost seems to solidify in the air, a heavy promise, an ethereal possibility.  This is what they’re aiming for, after all.  It seems so unreal.  “First before all else, I must prove I am capable of protecting you.”

 

“Protecting me.  Okay.  How?”

 

“If I’m not mistaken,” Heimdall begins.  “You have a situation on your hands.  An old friend, turned enemy, whom you have decided to face on your own.”  Fury thinks back to a few hours earlier, to the debriefing about Oscorp, and _how in the hell does he know about that?_ “Perhaps I could be of some assistance?”

 

It takes him a minute to speak.  “1,” He begins, holding up a hand.  “We are going to have a very long talk about security and how the hell you got that information. 2,” He holds up another finger, then hesitates.  “… I could use some back up.”


	3. Recollections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria takes some time to recollect on her own courtship with Sif.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! When I started planning this story, I only had Nick/Heimdall in mind. Then my friend planted the idea of Sif/Maria, but I had no idea how it was going to work. I think I'm finally satisfied with how I wrote them. I hope you like it!

If Maria Hill is laughing at Nick Fury’s predicament, it’s not because she’s unkind.

It’s the mirth that comes from being on the other side of a very similar problem. She watches the Director scowl and walk about the ship like a storm, so bothered by the idea of having feelings, and she feels a kind of déjà vu that makes her smile.

She is somewhat knowledgeable in Asgardian courtship, now. If she were inclined, she might give Nick a tip or two, but where would be the fun in that? She had been clueless going into all this. And it is possible she’s having a very good time watching Nick Fury, Director of SHIELD, act like a lovesick teenager.

It had begun months before, amidst the chaos of the Brotherhood and Division X’s schemes, in which the Avengers had practically imploded and almost taken the whole world with them. Life had been a headache then, and Maria had been too busy trying to keep everything in one piece to be looking for love.

Love had found her, anyway. And love had a mean right hook.

//

_There’s a rip in the sky above New York, and it’s as if history is replaying itself. Only this time, it’s a human being pulling the strings behind this, and has nothing to do with any alien life forms. Well, except those two Asgardians who can’t seem to keep well enough alone._

_The elder has already flown off towards Stark Tower, or Avengers Tower, whatever it’s called now. But the younger has been left behind, unconscious upon another rooftop. Whatever his motivations or reasons are for coming with Thor, Loki is a criminal of the highest order, and he can’t be allowed to walk free. SHIELD has to take him in._

_Maria knows this, but she also knows that Loki is Thor’s brother, and this is a very delicate situation. So she goes down alone, to make sure Loki’s alive, and that he stays that way. SHIELD can arrest him when its certain doing so won’t start an interstellar war._

_When she comes to the rooftop, Maria finds Loki is not alone._

_There’s someone else, clearly another Asgardian, standing over him. A tall, muscular woman, with long auburn hair, and sharp eyes that almost catch sight of Maria as she ducks back down below cover. She doesn’t want to fight – the whole point of this is to stop a war. But she can’t let Loki go, not after he clearly violated the terms of the peace agreement and returned to Earth. This is her job._

_So, with a heavy sigh, Maria stands, pulls her gun, and aims at the warrior woman. “Step away from the trickster god,” She orders with a voice as firm as she can muster. The warrior meets her eyes, and her gaze is strong as steel, with an amused glint to them. A fire lights in Maria’s belly, and it may be only partially because she does not like being laughed at. “Now!”_

_“Will you fight me, mortal?” The woman stands tall, and has her hand on the hilt of her sword, still sheathed at her belt._

_Maria frowns. “If I have to.”_

_The woman stands stock still, an eyebrow quirked, smirking. She makes a very beautiful, stoic image, like something out of an Amazonian fairy tale. Then, she moves._

_Maria hardly sees her coming, and has just enough time to duck a blow to the head that would’ve knocked her out for sure. The speed and strength of this woman! She flips herself back, letting go of the gun with one hand in order to move into a full backflip. She almost catches the woman’s chin with her right foot, but she ducks away just in time. Then, Maria hears the ring of steel against steel. When she stands again, the sword is unsheathed._

_For a moment her mind goes blank as she stares at the sight of this stranger, wearing the regalia of Asgard, gleaming like a warrior goddess, and in that hesitation her enemy moves again. Maria reacts, firing upon her twice, but the bullets are deflected by armor and steel._

_The sword isn’t aimed at her – it is aimed at her hands, towards the gun, and to keep from losing her fingers Maria drops it and flings herself away. It isn’t graceful, but it gets the job done._

_The stranger is grinning now, and she lets the sword go before turning on Maria again. Then it is full on brawling, fists against fists, and every blow her opponent lands feels as strong as Mjolnir itself. Damn this hurts! But there is something exhilarating about it, especially after so much time behind the scenes, sitting at a desk, only able to watch as the world fell apart around her. Maria throws herself into the battle, savoring the iron taste of blood in her mouth, and she feels perhaps she knows an inkling of what it was to be like Jacob, wresting the angel until daybreak._

_And much like in the story, the stranger she fights with leans back, and speaks to her. “What is your name?”_

_Maria never gets the chance to reply. Reinforcements arrive, SHIELD soldiers coming down from the Helicarrier. If they see this… luckily the warrior woman seems to realize the same. She lets go of Maria, backs away, and suddenly vanishes in an explosion of white light._

//

_The experience was like something out of a wondrous dream, but Maria puts it behind her. She’s unlikely to ever see the powerful, gorgeous warrior ever again._

_She continues with her duties at SHIELD, which includes going with Director Fury to meet the Asgardian delegates. Things have been strained between Earth and Asgard, and all the more now that Loki has escaped and come to Earth. Earth doesn’t want him – and neither does Asgard, apparently, because they won’t take him back._

_The delegates are meant to be an attempt at making a deal, but it’s really just a show. Asgard won’t take Loki, and Earth can’t do anything but keep him. But Fury will meet with the delegates just the same, because he can’t tell them to fuck off._

_Maria is at his side when the Queen of Asgard herself comes to meet him. And, on her side… is the warrior._

_Maria just barely keeps from tripping over herself at the sight of the stranger, in the same regal armor, standing at the side of a Queen, like something out of legend. Introductions begin and she hears her name being given to the Asgardians, but mostly her ears catch the introduction of Sif._

_Sif…_

_She goes home that night and reads of legends, of Norse Gods and myths, and finds herself hoping the truth is even better than the stories._

//

_Maria’s apartment is nothing much. She’s not there often, after all. It’s not a place where people come to visit or friends stay for dinner. She sleeps in a room on the helicarrier more often than not._

_Still, there’s some sentiment to having a place away from work. A place to keep a few photographs, some normal clothes, her favorite books and movies, tucked away on shelves where they see little use. Every so often, Maria makes a point to return there, if only to remember it exists._

_On such a night, sitting in front of the TV watching Xena reruns, Maria hears a knock at her door. She never receives visitors here; anyone from SHIELD would’ve sent her some warning. Immediately she is alert to the possibility of a threat, drawing her gun from her holster. She approaches the door carefully, unsure of what she might find…_

_A single Asgardian is not exactly what she expected._

_It’s her – Sif. The beautiful warrior goddess. Maria feels her face grow hot but she does not drop her stance or relax. “What do you want?” She asks quickly, growing hotter for the attention the woman is giving her._

_“To speak.” She is not intimidated by the weapon – no, she looks intrigued by it, interested. Not in the weapon itself, but in the person holding it._

_“Any discussions between Asgard and SHIELD happen on the helicarrier.”_

_“And what of discussions between Sif and Maria?”_

_The words take her off guard. “Er – what would we be discussing?” It sounds more like a nervous question than she likes, so Maria quickly straightens her posture again and hardens her voice. “We have nothing to discuss!”_

_“We might, if you are open to it.” Sif is smiling now, and it’s more disarming than her smirk. It’s warm, gentle, inviting. “Would you allow me a moment to speak to you? Merely as myself, not as a vassal of Asgard?”_

_This is probably a terrible idea. This cannot end well._

_“Fine,” She says, and she steps to the side, but she doesn’t put the gun away. Once the door is closed, she keeps it at her side. Sif notices, and seems to approve. The thought that she’s earned some kind of approval makes her flush again, and that is an irritating thought, but she can’t help it._

_Sif walks through her apartment as if she owns it, as if she has conquered a battlefield and won her reward. Maria thinks she would very much like to be the reward. The thought comes suddenly as Sif removes the cape about her shoulders, flinging it deftly through the air and over the back of the couch, and how is removing a piece of archaic frippery so damn attractive?_

_“You have a fine home,” Sif’s eyes dart about the space, seemingly appreciative. Maria shrugs._

_“It’s something.” It’s hardly a home. But she’d rather not talk about that. She’d rather not talk about anything. It has been a long time since she’s been with anyone, and having a very attractive Asgardian warrior in her apartment is apparently awakening desires which have been long denied. Maria frowns and bites her lip._

_She sees Sif’s eyes dart to look at them as she does. That cannot – no. Not thinking about it. Turning, Maria makes sure she locked her front door, before approaching the kitchen counter and taking a seat. She feels better with an obstacle between them. It might keep her from acting foolishly._

_“So,” Maria begins. “What is so important you came all the way here to talk about it?”_

_Sif turns to her, smiles that beautiful smile, and answers._

//

“What has you giggling so much?”

She’s not giggling, not out loud, but clearly the amused look on her face is giving her away. “Sorry, sir,” She clears her throat as Nick Fury cocks an eyebrow. “Just – thinking back on fond memories.”

“Uh huh,” He looks skeptical. “Anything to do with a certain swordswoman you refuse to talk to me about?”

She’d told him, in a fashion, about Sif. It is – difficult, having a relationship with someone from a world that is constantly at odds with hers. SHIELD is the front line of that constant debate. If certain people find out that she is essentially dating one of the highest ranked warriors in Asgard’s court, it might make them question her loyalties.

But she can trust Nick Fury.

“It might.” It certainly has to do with how, when Sif had first asked for permission to court her, Maria had about had a fit and thrown her out the front door. It had been so – so startling, so completely out of left field, she’d been completely unable to handle it. She tells Nick as much, and he starts laughing too.

“Hey!” She hits his shoulder, lightly. “At least I didn’t shoot at her.”

He grumbles at that, but he’s still smiling.

//

_Possibly a week later, a knock comes at her door again._

_She considers not answering; perhaps pretending she’s not at home. But she is slightly afraid that the woman might just keep at it until she gets an answer, or knocks the door down. So with a sigh, Maria stands and opens the door._

_There is Sif, with a very large bouquet of flowers._

_Maria stares at them. “What’s this?”_

_“I was told this is how such things are done, with your people,” Sif sounds – not like Sif. Not confident and sure, but a bit anxious. “My source was reliable. I think.”_

_Maria has never been given flowers. Trembling hands reach up towards the bouquet, but don’t quite make it. As a young teen, she’d been a standoffish, tomboyish youth who attracted more insults and violent attacks than kind words and gentle affection. No one has ever done something like… this._

_“Right,” She says on auto-pilot. “Um. Sure. Come in.” She walks back into her apartment without touching the flowers, but cannot forget their scent._

_Sif comes in, still holding the flowers to her chest in a rather awkward fashion. She glances around the room, a red tint to her face. “How should I…?” Then, she sees Maria’s fish tank, and her eyes light up with recognition. She dumps all the flowers in the tank._

_Maria gawks, moving towards it. “Why’d you do that?”_

_Sif suddenly gets very flustered. “The blond man from the Avengers,” She points, as if trying to avert guilt across the distance towards wherever Clint Barton is. “He told me that mortals put bouquets of flower in water, to indicate their interest in each other. Have - is this -?” She glances at the flowers. “Have I done wrong? Or… are you uninterested?”_

_Maria sees the indecision and disappointment grow on Sif’s face, and is suddenly glad that all her fish died months ago because SHIELD kept her so busy, and she never got around to getting rid of the tank. “No, I – I am. I think.”_

_Sif’s eyes dart to hers. “You think?”_

_“Well, that is,” Now flustered herself, Maria shrugs. “I can’t say I want to get married to an alien warrior from another planet! We just met. I hardly know you. I – I can’t even understand why you’d want this! Want… me.”_

_The warrior grows quiet. She has one hand on the tank, which is now full of drifting roses and carnations and other things Maria doesn’t know. She’s never been one for botany. But she doesn’t have to know their names to know what Sif meant by them._

_“In many ways, Asgard is ahead of Earth and its cultures, but in others, it is still… ignorant.” One of Sif’s hands moves to the hilt of her sword. Maria finds she does not feel threatened. “I have fought to be where I am, I have struggled, and suffered. I stand now as one of the few women in Odin’s inner court. The battles I won to get there have shaped me into what I am.” The hand on her sword-hilt leaves, and lifts to Maria’s cheek. She finds she can’t fight that gentle push as Sif encourages her to meet her eyes._

_“I see that same struggle in you,” Sif says. “When we fought that day, there was such drive and passion in you, I was entranced. But it was seeing you beside your leader, the only woman amongst them, that caught me. We may not know each other, but if you have fought the war I imagine you have… then you know more of me than my closest comrades.”_

_The hand fell; Sif stepped away, and Maria had to fight the urge to grab her arm, and pull her back. “I will leave you to consider my proposition. I ask no promises or oaths, only that we might try… and see if this is a thing worth having.”_

_Then she’s gone._

//

Fury invites her over for dinner that night. Heimdall is nowhere to be found, which isn’t surprising. Sif remembers the long breaks between courtship steps, in which they weren’t even allowed to be in the same room (and where probably not on the same planet). She hopes she’ll meet him, eventually.

They talk about Sif, and Heimdall; about their courtships. Most of it is Maria, recounting what has already happened. She tells him about the fight, meeting again on the helicarrier, the flowers.

“Well?” He asks. “You obviously said yes.”

“Eventually,” She admits with a shrug. “I was more stubborn than you. It took longer than a week for me to decide it was what I wanted.” Quite a bit longer – more like three weeks of anxiety and wavering back and forth and trying to decide if dreams could really happen, or if it was just another bubble waiting to burst. “But I told her yes.”

“How many of the steps have you been through?”

“Seven.”

His eyes widen at that. “Well, I know the first one.” He tells her. “You fight together, right? Don’t tell me you squirreled that woman away on a SHIELD mission.”

Chuckling, Maria shakes her head. “No, she took me on one of hers.”

//

_The world is chaos – in fact, it might be called Chaos, for all that Maria knows. She’d been told this was a place among the nine realms, where bandits are attacking towns and villages, ransacking and killing as they go, and it is Sif’s duty to stop them. Sounds like fun, she’d said._

_It is fun. It is – glorious. With SHIELD, she rarely has a chance to really let her hair down and just fight, all out brawl, covered in sweat and blood and filth. SHIELD is silence, quick and deadly, no trace left behind. But this is war._

_She hears Sif nearby, letting out her battle cries, sword blazing in the sun. She is glorious too, at home amongst this madness, armor gleaming in the light. Maria can’t believe she’s doing this. She’s got a sword too, and it is ridiculous, she feels like she’s playing but she knows this is real – this can’t be real, this is something out of fiction, out of legend –_

_“Look out!”_

_No sooner than she is warned is Sif by her side, shoving her behind. The enemy who had come at her from behind is quickly dispatched, and Sif stays with her, an arm across her front._

_“I can do this!” Maria tries to get back into the fight, heart pounding, feeling like she’s outside her own body, her own mind, with how this feels. Like she might sprout wings and fly._

_“Do you forget our purpose today?” But Sif is grinning, Maria’s war-lust inspiring another kind of lust of her own. “I must prove I am worthy of protecting you. That I am capable. Will you let me?”_

_What can she say to that? Maria just nods, and watches in awe as Sif goes to work. She is magnificent. Dozens fall dead at her feet in the next half-hour, as the battle dwindles down and the end comes near. Sif keeps on, tearing them apart. Anyone who so much as looks Maria’s way is cut down. One fool actually tried to take her to use as a hostage. He did not get far._

_There is something… potent, about being defended this way. It inspires a heady feeling a little like lust and love and tinged with shock. To imagine that a warrior so great as this would willingly swear herself to Maria’s protection… she tingles all over at the thought. She might be half in love already, and she’s definitely in lust._

_“I’m guessing victory sex is out of the question?” She asks when it’s over. Sif laughs, throws her head back._

_“It would be more than welcome to me,” She says, and the hand on Maria’s shoulder squeezes tight, as she’s pulled in closer to Sif. “In time, dear one.”_

_Dear one, Maria thinks as her cheeks grow hot. She likes that._

//

“So?” Fury is still waiting for an answer. “The first step? How was it?”

Maria finds she cannot keep from smiling. “You’re going to love it.”


	4. Espionage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick and Heimdall go on a date. Sort've.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay! There are a lot of reasons why it happened. Some of it has to do with the reception I've received on a lot of stories, but mainly on Metal Heart and its extended universe. The truth is, I've gotten a lot of bigoted and nasty reviews that got my spirits down, and made it hard to return to this universe.
> 
> But I have not been defeated! I am back! And the bigots can suck it. But it would be very nice if you like this story if you left a kind review. And if you don't like it, refrain from leaving such comments as the pairing is "immoral", the story would be better "without the women", or you how you like in "in spite of" the queer characters. Yeah. Wow. No thank you.
> 
> NOTE: The rating of the story has changed, as this chapter has smutty aspects. Be warned.

_Norman Osborn had once been a prospective supplier of SHIELD._

_He’d desperately wanted the job, as it would have meant a great deal of clout and revenue for his company.  He’d almost gotten it, too; but Stark won out over him, mostly due to his past experience with the SHIELD founders and his time with the military.  It hadn’t sat well with Norman, of course.  He’d been more than pissed, he’d stormed a SHIELD meeting and accused them of favoritism and a handful of other unsavory things before being escorted out._

_He’d been on a SHIELD watch list ever since, though he’d been clean for the most part.  A few less than pleasant experiments and not quite regulation weapons development projects, but nothing that required SHIELD’s direct intervention._

_But disappearing off the face of the damn planet for days was definitely something SHIELD needed to look into._

_One moment, he’d been in his office; the next, nowhere.  Not in the whole damn building, not on the planet.  SHIELD sensors couldn’t find him, and Norman Osborn was not exactly an easy man to miss.  He was relatively famous, if not as much as his rival, and he stood out like a sore thumb wherever he went.  But for days, no one could find him.  There wasn’t a single clue where he’d gone._

_Then, pop, he reappeared again, in his office building, and promptly started tearing the whole organization apart.  People were fired and replaced at the drop of a hat.  All his security cameras, guards, passwords, decryption programs, all changed and upgraded and replaced.  Spies SHIELD had installed, backdoors SHIELD had exploited, all gone._

_Of course, the scale of it drew SHIELD’s attention, as it inevitably had to.  Norman had to of known that.  The fact that he surely did and didn’t care was more concerning.  What could he be doing that was so important that he didn’t care if he drew SHIELD’s attention?_

_It was Nick Fury’s mission to find out._

//

“That’s the gist of it,” Nick finishes, leaning forward with his arms on his knees.  They’re sitting in his home, around his coffee table, and it’s the strangest place he’s ever held a debriefing.  Then again, he’s never held one with his… boyfriend.

What a juvenile word.  Yet, he prefers it to ‘betrothed’, because at least it doesn’t carry that intimidating weight, that heaviness that makes his throat dry and his breath stutter.  Yet, it’s closer to the truth.  Thinking about it makes his chest tighten with nerves while his mind practically glows in excitement at the thought, and the experience is very confusing.

Heimdall nods, looking down over the papers Nick had spread before him.  They’re all relevant to the layout of Oscorp, the number of defenses, guards, security systems, whatever else could be uncovered.  For a moment, Nick just watches him, his gaze drifting from warm gold eyes, half lidded in thought, to his broad hands, shifting the papers about.  He almost doesn’t want to disturb this, the comfortable peace between them.

“How did you know about this mission?”  Nick finally asks.

Heimdall lifts his eyes.  “It is… perhaps easier if I show you.”  He stands.  “It’s just as well; for I have another way for you to enter this building, as well.”

Nick stands, too.  “Let me guess; that bridge you all have?” 

He nods.  “It can take you into the building without his notice.”

“Can it do that anywhere?”

He shrugs.  “Most anywhere.  Certain forms of magic can block it.”

Nick makes a note to himself to call Dr. Strange about those kinds of magic as soon as he gets back.  Allowing Asgard an open door to anywhere on Earth is too big a risk.  “Alright, we’ll do it your way.”  Nick says finally, gesturing to him.  “Snap your fingers, wriggle your nose, do whatever the fuck it is you do.”

Heimdall looks confused at his words, but that’s nothing new.   He says nothing, but suddenly the both of them are enveloped in light.

Fury flinches, hands rising to cover his eye.  Once the bright dotty flares fade from his vision, he lowers his arms and takes a look around.  His one eye goes very wide.

“Well, Toto, we certainly aren’t in Kansas anymore,” Nick mutters quietly.

The room is circular, and grand, with a large vaulted ceiling made of what appears to be glass, revealing the universe beyond it.  Gold covers everything, including the raised dais in the center, where a sword has been embedded in some kind of device.  It is clearly unlike anything from earth, completely alien, and it is awe-striking. 

“Welcome to Asgard,” Heimdall says once Fury turns around.  The man is still in mortal clothes, but he looks completely at home in the wondrous setting.  “I would give you a better introduction to my home, but that will have to wait for your mission to be completed.”

“First things first,” Nick insists, turning to face him.  “I want a straight answer.  How did you know?”

Heimdall hesitates, which is unlike him.  For all his secrecy, he’s always forthright about it, coming right out and saying why he can’t tell the truth.  To hedge is unlike him.  Fury frowns, brow furrowing.

Finally, he outstretches his hand.  “Come, stand with me.”  His look is strange, somewhat hard and distant, the expression of one about to give bad news.  It unsettles Fury further, but he steps forward, coming to stand by Heimdall.  He doesn’t take the man’s hand, that’s just… too open, too much for him right now. 

Instead, Heimdall lifts his arm around Fury, placing it at his waist, and Nick doesn’t shy from it.  It’s a show of affection that requires no effort on his part, and so he allows it, secretly reveling in the warmth of it.  He hasn’t been held by anyone since he was a boy.  He’s never been held like _this_ by anyone, cradled to Heimdall’s side, his strong arm a reassuring brace about his body.

“Look out, before us,” Heimdall says, leaning in towards Nick.  As he speaks his breath brushes Nick’s cheek, as the taller man presses his forehead to Nick’s temple.  It is sweet and intimate and Nick is desperate for such simple touches.  “What do you see?”

“Stars,” He manages, much more attune to the man at his side.  “Space.  What the fuck am I supposed to see?”

“You are right,” Heimdall chuckles at his vehemence.  “But there is far more than that, if you have my eyes.”

Nick freezes.  “What kind of eyes are those?”

“I am All-Seeing,” Heimdall continues his voice quieter, more hesitant.  “My gaze can penetrate the stars, the planets, the fabric of our galaxy.”

His body stiff and tone stern, Nick takes a step back from Heimdall, away from the precipice.  “Be a little more precise than that.  Are you telling me you can see Earth from here?  Anyone on Earth?  Close enough to hear a goddamn _mission’s briefing_?”

Heimdall hesitates, his gaze flickers downward.  “Yes.”

His hand flies to his head, as he spins round and paces away.   “Shit!”  He’d always known they were outmatched by Asgard, but this?  A man, just a single man, without even being on planet Earth, can hear them and see them whenever and wherever he likes?  “Fuck, you shouldn’t have told me this.”

“Why should I not?”

Spinning round, Nick advances on him.  “Fucking hell, Heimdall!  You just told me your people have an open peephole into Earth as if it’s fucking nothing!  I’m the goddamn Director of SHIELD, I don’t think your King is going to be very happy to know you just gave that away!”

“My sight is not a weapon, it is a shield.”  Frowning, Heimdall crosses his arms.  “And it is mine to share with whom I will.  My King commands me, but he does not own me.”

“You really think this won’t bother him?”

“He is an honorable man.  He will not begrudge me openness with my betrothed.”

He couldn’t really believe that, could he?  That the King of Asgard wouldn’t mind his Gatekeeper just telling secrets like this to the Director of SHIELD?  Betrothed or not, surely that was a stupid idea?  Surely Heimdall couldn’t believe…

But he does.  It’s clear in his eyes that he really believes in things like honor and truth and the idea that some things are sacred.  He doesn’t believe his King would ever order him to use his powers for such base things as spying and espionage.  Nick isn’t so sure.  He met Odin, King of Asgard, once.  He wouldn’t put anything past that man.

Sighing, Nick throws his hands up.   “Fine, whatever, I’ve got my answer.  Now let’s get going before we waste any more damn time.”

He’s not sure he should be doing this.  It had always seemed like a stupid idea, being with the Gatekeeper of Asgard, but now it’s really hit home how idiotic this is.  How much they’re both risking, what they’re putting on the line.  And he finds he has to ask himself the question, what if relations between Earth and Asgard fell out?  What if they became enemies?

What if Heimdall became his enemy?

He’d do his job, of course.  And it would hurt like hell and haunt him most likely, but that just came with the territory.  That was probably their future, he realized, watching as Heimdall stepped up to the dais and put his hands on the sword.  Watched him with the sharp heartache of dread and realization:

There was really no way this could end but in tragedy.

//

The bridge, it turned out, could not take them directly into OsCorp.  Those rare magics Heimdall mentioned were apparently saturating the building, which meant OsCorp had known about the Bifrost and prepared for it.

“Not a good sign,” Nick mutters, fuming.  “Fucking hell, what a night.”

Instead, Heimdall sent them just outside the building.  It’s close enough, Fury tells himself, trying not to think about anything but the mission, not his future-lover or the impending shitfest of trouble with Asgard or whatever the fuck Norman Osborn is cooking up.  Just get inside, find out what he’s doing, report back.  Complete the mission.

It’s a nice change of pace, being out in the field.  He’s missed this.  The intensity, the pounding heart, the feeling of satisfaction at having survived, at having accomplished his goal.  It’s a rush unlike any other.  Even as he thinks it, he feels all his fears and worries melting away behind the immediate thought of survive, succeed, survive.

“Alright,” He mutters quietly, glancing at Heimdall.  He draws his gun.  “Follow my lead, and stick behind me.  Don’t do a damn thing without my say so.”

Heimdall nods, and they’re off.

//

Getting into the building is the easy part.

Norman has largely expanded his business practices of late, buying materials by the truckload, hauling and loading them by the hour.  The increase has spread their employees thin, and weakened their security.  It’s a small weakness, because the building is still full of guards and cameras and sensors, but it’s something. 

Nick frowns as he examines the loading dock, where another truck has just pulled up and started unloading.  What could they be doing with all that shit?

“What is the plan?”  Heimdall asks, just behind him.  He’s kneeling, hands on his knees, not as far behind the building as Nick would like. Rolling his eyes, he tugs the man back further into the shadows. 

“Sneak in, find the intel, get back out alive,” Nick tells him quietly.  To be honest, he’s not got more of a plan than that.  Originally, he’d meant to install another spy, but that would take time, and he knew time was something they didn’t have as soon as Osborn decided to stop by Stark Tower for a visit.  That could only mean one thing: trouble.  Osborn was planning something.  Given it involved Stark, it was only a matter of time before Tony found out, and once he did, the whole thing would explode.  So.  Get in, get out, figure this shit out before Tony got involved.

Nick sees one of the guards turn, walking behind the truck to talk to someone.  Not a single guard in sight, no one looking their way.  “Move!”  he darts out from behind the wall, towards the truck, running close to the ground and as quickly as he can.  He hears Heimdall behind him but can’t spare him a look; they’ve only got one shot at this.  If they’re caught out here there is a high probability they won’t make it inside. 

Nick slides up along the truck, moving slowly and carefully.  Still no sign of anyone; the guard hasn’t come back.  Ahead of them, he can see the inside of the loading bay, and along the right, a ramp leading to a door that opens with a sliding key.  He’s got a device in his pocket that will get around that, if they can only get over there.  Edging up to the front of the truck, Nick glances round it – only to jump back. 

The guard has turned around; he’s about ten feet away, and closing in, walking towards them.  Behind him, there are ten guys unloading the new truck that just pulled up.  The one they’re standing behind is apparently empty. 

Nick freezes for a moment, thoughts rushing; then, on a whim, he tries the door to the truck.  It opens.  In an instant he throws it open, climbs in, and turns to Heimdall.   The other doesn’t need to be told, he follows, and closes the door after him. 

The problem is, they’re still visible, in the window.  Nick knows all the guard has to do is look up to see him.  So, he immediately falls back onto the seat, grabbing Heimdall and pulling him down with him, front to front.  Their entire bodies are aligned, Heimdall’s arms falling on either side of Nick’s head to support him, and the man’s lips are just a hair’s breadth away.  There is a jean-clad thigh pressed up against him between his legs, and oh Jesus Christ –

“I did not realize,” Heimdall began breathlessly, “we had come so far in our relationship.”

“Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

“Perhaps a poor choice of words.”

Nick rolls his eyes but heat floods his face even so.  But this is not the time for such things, not by a long shoot.  He pointedly ignores the literally divine form pressed against him, and listens intently for the footsteps of the guard.

//

They managed to make it inside, and disable the cameras on their hall, but it’s not much of a measure.  Someone will realize the cameras have been turned off soon enough.  It’s just a buffer, to give them time.  Time to find the intel, before the sirens start going off.

“What are we searching for?”

“Norman’s got a research lab in the basement, used to use it for his more secretive projects.  Now, practically every shipment he gets in goes down the rabbit hole to that lab.  And the only reason I know that, is because we happened to have a guy on the inside with one of the shipping companies – before he was fired, his cover blown.”  Just like every other SHIELD agent that came within a mile of OsCorp.  “But we have no idea what they’re buying or what it’s being used for.”

“That is what we are here to find out?”

Nick nods as he turns a corner, gun raised just in case.  “Exactly.”

“The lab can only be reached by the Executive Elevator, “ He explains as they run up the hall.  “Which requires a key, a fingerprint, and a password.  None of which I’ve got, anymore.” 

They came up to the elevator and slid to a halt, on the second floor, not the first, of the building.  Nick hit the button to call the elevator.  “So, then, how are we going to use it?”  Heimdall asks him.

Turning, Nick smirks, and starts running again.  “We’re not.”  He heads for the stairwell.  Down they go, Heimdall just behind him, moving to the first floor, to the same elevator.  Nick slides to a halt again, turning to Heimdall.  “Can you pry these open?”

Heimdall chuckles.  “It would be my pleasure.”  Cracking his fingers, he approaches the metal doors, and Nick watches in amazement as he simply presses his hands into the grove, pulls, and tears the metal apart like it’s nothing.

_Hot damn!_

Once they were open, Nick steps forward, removing the ropes and other supplies he’d carried with him in his bag.  “Put these on,” He tells Heimdall, handing him the other set.  Heimdall stares, as if he’s never seen climbing equipment before.  “What, never gone spelunking?”  Then he snorts.  “I thought you were _All-Seeing_ , haven’t you seen these before?”

Heimdall frowns.  “I have not seen everything.”  He admits, looking at the equipment warily.  Nick’s already got most of his on when he sighs and steps forward.

“Here, let me.”

It’s… well.  He’s got to stand right in Heimdall’s space, putting his arms around him, moving around his arms and legs, not so much touching him as simply being painfully aware of his body.  But he clips on the equipment with allowing for any distraction, because they have very little time left. 

Damn, he hasn’t been this distracted on the job since he was a rookie _.  Get it together Fury._

//

What he can see of the lab thus far isn’t very impressive.  Everything is white, from the floors to the ceiling, and it’s just a long hall lined with doors.  At the end is a set of double doors, leading out to what looks like a larger workshop, if what Nick sees through the glass embedded in the wood is any sign.  He won’t risk that direction yet.  Likely to have more guards, and more security.  In fact, guards are probably on the way, since they were just seen on camera a moment ago.

“Get moving,” Nick barks behind him, running to the nearest door, and bursting through.  There are a handful of scientists inside, but no guards.  Nick lifts his gun, and they all leap to their feet, hands in the air.  “Everybody against the back wall now, move it!”

They listen to him eagerly.  When Heimdall walks in, Nick nods in their direction.  “Watch them.”  He would hand the guy his gun, but somehow he knows Heimdall doesn’t need it.  Sitting at the nearest computer terminal, he pops in the USB, hits a few keys, and lets it go to work.

“We’ve maybe got a few minutes before guards storm this place.”  Nick says as he turns to Heimdall, standing.

“And how long will your device take?”

“About as long.”

He doesn’t have to say it, Heimdall understands.  They’re going to have to fight their way out of here.

“Good,” Heimdall replies, smirking.  “Now I have a chance to prove my worth to you.”

He sounds so sincerely excited that Nick can’t help but smile.  As if this man had anything to prove to him.  As if Nick was worth that. 

The minutes pass, and finally the device finishes; Nick stows it in his pocket, and gestures to Heimdall.  They burst out into the hall, turning to run to the elevator, to find the way blocked by guards, running for them.

Heimdall doesn’t waste a moment; he charges them.  Nick barely registers it before the man already takes down two of them, one with a harsh blow to the head, the other elbow in the gut then kneed in the face.  Ouch. 

He stands there, gun drawn, heart pounding, eager to help, but all he can really do is just watch.  The man is a damn hurricane.  Stunned, Nick’s eye goes wide as he sees Heimdall take down one, then another, then another, like they’re all just pins at a bowling alley and he just rolled a strike.  One guy attempts to bludgeon Heimdall in the back of the head with a nightstick, and the blow lands – but it’s like he didn’t even feel it.  He spins round and advances on the guy and Nick almost feels sorry for him.  

Not five minutes, and all twelve guards are on the ground, in various stages of barely conscious to concussed and needing medical attention.  Nick’s jaw is practically on the floor.  They barely even touched Heimdall, the guy didn’t even break a sweat.  In fact, he’s grinning, looking at Nick’s flabbergasted face and _laughing_ , damnit.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Nick mutters, as Heimdall saunters up to him. 

“I will take that as a compliment.”  He replies with a grin.

//

It is not a surprise that getting out is no problem.  In fact, getting out is easier than getting in.  Heimdall tears through OsCorp’s guards like they’re paper, and in no time they’re back on street level, far enough outside the building to utilize the Bifrost.  In a flash of light they’re standing on Asgard, and in another flash, they’re in his home, breathing hard and laughing.

It’s been a long time since Nick really laughed like this.  Not a quiet, sardonic chuckle, not an empty, sarcastic, sound, a real belly laugh.  He can’t honestly remember the last time he had reason to, the last time he felt this elated.  It was just another mission, yet here he is, and the only difference is the man standing not a foot away.

He’s laughing too, a hearty chuckle that sounds almost like a rumble and comes from deep in his chest, which heaves with the strength of his laughter.  His eyes shine, mouth wide open, he’s so free with it all, with his feelings, and thoughts.  So unafraid to put all of himself out there.

Some of Nick’s joy dies down, and he feels it all coming back: the worries, the fears, reality.  The rush of a job well done is fading, his pulse is settling back down, and he is remembering what just happened not an hour ago.

Heimdall seems to notice his darkening mood.  He stops laughing, gaze growing concerned.  “Are you alright?”  He steps forward. “You were not hurt, were you?”

The words catch in his throat.  He’s not sure what to say.  What does he even want to say?  Conflicting feelings war in his chest and above all he can think only of his duty, his job, and how much of a risk this is. 

He shouldn’t be doing this.

“Nicolas?”

He lifts his eyes, meets those blazing gold orbs which can see everything in the fucking universe, and he wants to say that they have to break it off, that this is the end, because he’s Director of SHIELD and Heimdall is the Gatekeeper of Asgard and this can only ever end badly.

Instead he looks at those eyes.  He stares into those warm eyes that looked at the whole damn Earth from pole to pole, eyes that saw every human being on the face of the planet, and out of all of them, choose _him_.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” He starts softly, voice cracking, “My name is Nick.”

Heimdall steps closer, one hand settling on Nick’s hip, the other rising ever so slowly to cup his cheek.  “Nick,” He whispers, and as he does he seems to lean in, as if he’s gravitating towards Nick, as if at that moment this one human being is the center of his universe.  “What is the matter?”

Lies come to him, immediately, shields ready to be drawn up, distance about to be created – but he doesn’t do it.  He hesitates.  Voice catches in his throat.  When he does speak, it’s weak, raspy.  “I’m afraid.  I’m goddamn terrified.”

“Of what?”

“Wanting you.”

The honesty and sincerity of his words light a fire in Heimdall’s eyes.  His gaze widens, and the hand caressing Nick’s cheek stills.  “Why is that something to fear?”

“Who I am, the life I live…”  He’s, god, is he crying?  He thinks he might be, but he can barely tell, he’s so out of his head with these feelings and why did he think this would be a good idea – “I don’t get to have what I want.  And I want you so _fucking_ much.”

Who is this stranger, barging into his life just weeks ago, turning it all upside down?  Who is this man that he needs in such a base, instinctual way that it feels as if he’ll burn up and fade away if he doesn’t get him?  It’s not love he’s feeling – as if he’d recognize it if he was – and it’s not just lust, it’s a _need_ , it’s the feeling of having someone, anyone, with him after being alone for so long, and it almost doesn’t matter who, but it does, it must be this man, this man who actually _wants_ him, who reached out to him despite being denied again and again –

Lips touch his, gently, ever so gently, and pull Nick out of his churning miasma of thoughts.  His mind goes blank.  It’s as if the world fades to white.  When he comes back to himself, Heimdall has leaned away, but only just, still ever so close with his eyes half-lidded, both hands lifted to cradle Nick’s face. 

“What happened to keeping our distance?”  He manages to say.

“I find I do not care for such archaic traditions just now.”  Heimdall replies huskily.  “Besides,” He says with a smirk and a shrug.  “Those rules are for Asgardians.  They say nothing of mortals.”

Then, they’re kissing again, and not so gently as before; the hands at his neck sink lower, running over his skin as if mapping him, sliding down over his shoulders and arms, then back up.  Heimdall’s hold pulls him closer, tightens his grip, until they are chest to chest and Nick is clearly aware of every inch of the other man’s body. 

For a moment, he hesitates on the brink, uncertain, unsure.  But only a moment.  In the next instant, he surrenders, lets himself fall into it, and fall into Heimdall, against him.  His arms rise and wrap around the man’s neck, and he puts his all into the kiss.  It’s messy and sloppy and it’s his first kiss in years uncounted, but it’s wonderful.  Heat floods his face and runs through his body like a charge, like flame.

Hands tremble as he caresses Heimdall’s skin, even daring to press his fingers below the hem of his shirt.  That motion earns him a growl, as Heimdall presses harder against him, all warmth, a thick wall of muscle.  Next he knows, Nick’s back hits the wall, and he feels his feet leave the ground.  Instinctively he lets his legs fall open, and Heimdall takes advantage to step between them. 

There is no more space between them, nothing but the fabric separating their bodies as they kiss, in constant motion, and it’s so good but it’s not enough.  He gives a hitched gasp as Heimdall grinds his hips.  He starts to move with him, only to find two strong hands grabbing his waist and holding him still as Heimdall continues his movements  and god damn that is not far, that’s not –

Their kiss ends, and suddenly Heimdall’s not there.  Nick blinks in blurry, heady confusion, before his gaze drops and his heart skips a beat, pulse skyrocketing.  Heimdall is on his knees in front of him and that’s not a sight he’ll ever forget.  Warm gold eyes twinkle in mirth as he smirks, bruised lips twitching as his hands caress Nick’s sides, then slide round to his front.

 _Oh, fuck_.

The sound of his zipper sliding open sounds cacophonous in the silence, as does his pounding heart.  His hands grasp uselessly at the wall as he watches in stunned silence, until he can’t watch anymore or else it’ll all be over much too soon.  Gasping, a hand flies to his mouth and he throws his head back at the first touch of a goddamn tongue.  It has been too long.  Biting his knuckles hard, he realizes that it’s been _way_ too damn long.

At first, he’s teased, with explorative licks and kisses, still anchored to the wall by ridiculously strong hands.  (He realizes at some point that he’s still off the ground, that he’s hovering in the damn air, held only by Heimdall’s hands, and that apparently is a new turn on for him.)  Then, he’s swallowed down, and finally his hips can move, because Heimdall is fucking _moving_ him, and stars are exploding behind his eyes, and no it doesn’t last long because it really has been a while, but it’s fucking fantastic.

By the end of it his chest is heaving, coming down from a high he hasn’t felt the like of in years, floating in bliss and far removed from the pains he’d been so bogged down by moments before.  He feels his feet hit the floor, knees weak, but he’s held up by Heimdall.  The other stands, still very close, and it occurs to Nick that he’s still standing there with his damn pants open, and maybe he should do something about that – and then he looks at Heimdall and sees a goddamn speck on his bottom lip. 

“You, uh,” Nick stammers, still breathless.  “Got something on your face.”  He manages, chuckling a little.

Heimdall chuckles in reply, before _licking_ the damn thing off.  “Is that better?”

“Goddamn it, man, don’t do that to me!”  Tiredly, he lets his head roll forward, resting against Heimdall’s.  “I’m out.”  But he has no time to rest; he’s got to get the intel to SHIELD, find out what Norman’s doing, and make a plan to deal with it.  Once Heimdall leaves, he has a long night ahead of him.

But at least he had this.

“Why’d you do that?”  He asks finally.   “Not that I minded, exactly…”  The remark doesn’t get a laugh.  Heimdall’s eyes are strangely serious, as he lifts a hand to brush Nick’s cheek, tracing his cheek bone, up and down.

“I wished to see you happy.”  Heimdall says.  “But I’m afraid I’ve not done it yet.  Happiness seems to elude you.”

The honesty in the statement takes him by surprise.  “Yeah, well,” He chuckles again, gaze drifting away.  “Happiness isn’t in the job description.”  That’s not the answer Heimdall wanted to hear.  His look darkens, hand hesitating. 

The heat of the moment is fading off, and reality is settling in.

“I’ve got to get back to headquarters.”  Nick tells him.  Heimdall nods, lowers his arm, and steps away.  Nick quickly sets himself to rights, feeling a little off kilter.  The post-coital conversation is not one he’s had much experience with.  “I guess – I’ll see you in what, eight days?”

Heimdall’s eyes immediately brighten, two golden suns again.  “Yes!  That is, if I have succeeded.  Have I proven my worth?”

“Is that what that was?”  Nick chuckles to himself, and Heimdall’s look turns sly.

“No, it was not, though I hope it did not hurt my chances.”

They’re both smiling again.  How did this get so easy?  How did this man get so good at – at –

Making him happy?

“Yeah,” Nick manages, voice dry, the persona of the Director coming back over him.  “See you in eight days.”

Heimdall smiles, and disappears in a flash of light.  Nick stands for a moment in awe of the whole evening, and of the promises of the future, of everything.

But only a moment.  Then, he’s off, grabbing the USB and his gun, heading for the door.  He’s got a job to do.


End file.
